


Runaway, I've Got To

by jecook



Category: South Park
Genre: Drabble, IT'S CONTINUING, M/M, i just wrote this while listening to song edits from another room, oneshot but might continue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15436902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jecook/pseuds/jecook
Summary: Eric Cartman frees hostage Kyle Broflovski from right above a nightclub. Also this has quickly turned into a Mission: Impossible AU. Kyman but starts with some style.





	1. Chapter 1

Eric held his pistol close and his breath tight as "Tainted Love," blasting from speakers just one story down, shook the floor and his feet. He shuddered as his right cuff brushed his wrist: it was damp with blood from Eric's efforts to get down the hall in relative safety. Still, using the body as a meat shield had its consequences-Eric would have to replace his suit jacket and comfiest button-up, and his hand was frustratingly slick from the blood.

Not that it mattered too much. The job would reap rewards. Always did. Eric edged up to the corner of the hall, checking around the corner. Two marks. Two bullets. Easy. Silencer ever-reliable, Eric made the corner sharply. One-a hall mirror now reflected a splattering of fresh blood. Two-the man in left kneeling behind an armchair, head tilted toward the light, eyes wide to God, a new hole just slightly off-center in his forehead. Eric continued down the hall.

He trained his gun on an open door. A small kick and the door swung inward. Eric entered and swiftly took out the only opponent. He double checked the room before closing the door and stepping over the body and, finally, kneeling before the hostage. A ginger, his clothes torn and his mouth gagged. But his green eyes burned with a fierce hatred. Eric holstered his gun in order to procure his knife and swiftly cut the hostage, Kyle Broflovski, free.

Broflovski's first action was to pull the gag off his mouth. "Goddammit, Cartman, just how did you even get here?"

"No time to talk. Want a gun?"

"Of course I want a gun," Kyle said. Cartman motioned to the body. Kyle scowled, but chose to quickly search the body for a gun. And, of course, they had one. He scowled at that, too.

Eric took a moment to reload his gun, and once Kyle seemed acquainted with his own weapon, he grabbed a fistful of Kyle's sleeve. "Time to go," Eric ordered.

Eric steered Kyle with his right hand while taking aim with his left. Kyle balanced his firearm with both hands. If he hadn't been so tense, Cartman would have huffed and pestered Kyle over it. He looked like a cop; not that he wasn't. Staff Sergeant Broflovski excelled in the force, which is exactly how the idiot had landed himself as a fucking hostage-

Eric reminded himself to stay focused. To breathe. To get Kyle out safely. Eric would get Kyle out, get Kyle back to working his stupid cop job, get Kyle back to his apartment with Stan, get Kyle back to his relatively safe life, that way Eric could go back to IMF and go back to living life as a ghost on behalf of the government. He focused on his goals when he forced Kyle to take the steps slowly, for the sake of keeping low-profile. Eric focused on these goals as he pushed Kyle through the mass of people all dancing to remixed 80s music.

Eric couldn't even relax when he go Kyle outside. Instead, he placed his hand on Kyle's back and directed him to a black motorcycle parked just across the street.

"Aw, you even brought an extra helmet," Kyle teased.

But Eric wasn't having teases tonight. They just sped off into the night with nothing but the sounds of traffic to break the silence of the night.


	2. Runaway, It's Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory car/motorcycle chase.

Eric realized that the black van was following them. An exit, I need an exit, he thought. The wind ripped at his suit jacket and chilled his wrist where blood dripped from his hand down to his elbow. City blocks flashed by, the van only one block behind them.

"Cartman!" yelled Kyle. "Behind us!"

"Yeah, I know 'behind us,' Kahl," drawled Eric.

Eric kept his gaze trained ahead of them, watching for the next turn. One road passed by-a few cars waited at that stoplight. No good. Another opportunity passed by. And another. The van sped closer, until it was right on their tail.

"Cartman!" yelled Kyle.

Now or never. Eric made a hard left at the next light, which burned red above them. The van didn't make the turn, but Eric knew it would make the next one. Alright. Go time.

Eric wished he had music. "Tainted Love" still played on a loop in his head. Eric made another left, speeding back toward the club, past the club, then made another left. A black BMW suddenly pulled out of an alley, tailing right behind them.

"Shit!" Eric yelled, already pulling out his pistol. A woman leaned out the passenger window from the BMW, handgun trained on Eric and Kyle. Before Eric even took aim, Kyle started firing at her.

"You focus on driving!" Kyle ordered, taking a third shot at the woman, who ducked back inside the vehicle.

Right. Eric returned his gun to its holster. With both hands controlling his motorcycle, Eric focused. A mini cooper up ahead sat at the light, waiting patiently for it to change to green. Eric swerved to the right of the car, hopping onto the curb. He could hear Kyle firing behind him, and as Eric returned to the road, he took a moment to turn his head and check on the BMW.

It was still behind them, now with a couple of bullet holes in the windshield. Nice, thought Eric.

He returned his eyes to the road. Eric pulled right to make a sharp turn down another road, then an immediate left into a city park. He zig-zagged between trees, bushes, benches, and drunks before emerging onto another street. Eric had to make a hard right just to avoid crashing straight into a building. He sped down the left side of the road, jumped onto the curb, slowed a bit, and pulled into a dead-end alley, stopping at the end.

Kyle slid off the bike and walked over to the wall nearest them. "Jesus Christ," he said. Kyle cradled his helmet in his arms and stared at Eric.

Eric pulled off his own helmet and stared at Kyle. He cracked a smile and said, "Don't take my Lord's name in vain like that, Kahl."

Kyle huffed.

"Are you okay?" Eric asked, becoming more serious.

"Yeah," Kyle said, "I just… I suppose I wasn't expecting my week to go like this."

"You're a cop, Kahl."

"Yeah, I know I'm a cop. I usually know what I'm getting into before a chase, and I've never been the goddamned hostage in a situation, either." Kyle handed Eric back his helmet. "I'm going to order an Uber."

Eric watched, silent, while Kyle pulled out his phone and began tapping at it. They didn't look at each other while Kyle waited. Eric sat, silent, on his bike. Kyle stood, silent, at the mouth of the alley, not wanting to put himself too far into the light.

After a minute, still facing the street, Kyle spoke. "I assume you're still with the Impossible Mission Force?"

"You shouldn't say that out loud. Ears are everywhere."

"So that's a yes, then?"

Eric remained silent.

A black economy car pulled up to the curb in from of Kyle. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Eric. I still-" Kyle cut himself off.

"Tell Stan I said hi," Eric said, watching Kyle open the car door. "And congrats on the job. He's going to do a lot of good."

Kyle spun around, "Cartman-"

"Go, Kyle."

Kyle hesitated, then climbed into the back seat. Eric's eyes lingered on the car as it drove off. After a few more minutes, Eric pulled his helmet back on, made sure the spare helmet was secure, and drove off in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really just my writing warm up but I enjoy it so here is another chapter.


	3. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to reflect, and time to look forward. Our boys have some research to do.

Eric drove back to his current apartment - one of those flats that's already fully furnished. He always got put in places like this. They never felt like home, but Eric knew he would never have a permanent home again the day he decided to join the Impossible Missions Force.

The IMF sent Eric to Atlanta originally so that he could infiltrate a sect of yet another goddamned covert organization. These fuckers - "The Enforcers of Karma," as they liked to call themselves - would gather information on anyone they considered to be deserving of their "karma" and then that individual would vanish. Eric assumed he was going to go undercover to investigate, then pull the plug when he had all the information he needed.

24 hours ago, though, Eric realized, to terrifying effect, exactly who The Enforcers' latest target was: Agent Eric Cartman, adult male in his late 20s or early 30s, likely caucasian. While they had little information on the agent, one source out of Denver, CO, of all places in the world, gave the Enforcers a name. One name. In that moment, Eric realized that the mark the Enforcers had taken from the city police force wasn't just another stupid officer in way over their head - it was his stupid officer in way over their head.

At least, Kyle used to be his.

He was Stan's now, Eric supposed.

Eric threw his helmet onto the dining area table, vexed with the whole fucking situation. He needed to protect Kyle - again. This sort of thing was the exact reason they had left each other years ago. Eric couldn't risk Kyle being used against him, and Kyle couldn't handle being a hostage in the hands of every other terror and covert operation across the globe. After Kyle got pushed on a plane going from Denver to Tokyo, he said enough. It broke Eric's heart to hear Kyle finally say it, finally tell him they were over, but it made sense. Eric didn't even try to keep track of where Kyle ended up. He just… let him go. Not in his heart, not really. But there were no photos or trackers kept. That put Kyle at risk, too much risk.

Until two weeks ago, when Eric used his resources in the IMF to find out where Kyle was living, working, getting his coffee, where Stan bought his car, where Stan was working, where Stan was applying to. That day, Eric learned he was in the same city as the man he loved. He swore to himself he wouldn't seek Kyle out. But it seemed Kyle had stumbled into Eric, unfortunately enough for the both of them.

Eric took a shaky breath as he sat down at the table, staring his laptop down. The Enforcers knew his name, but that was all, really. His question was, how did they know? And could they learn more?

He opened his laptop and began searching. 

* * *

 

Kyle went home.

Two days before, he had been investigating a locally-based group that seemed to be responsible for several disappearances in Atlanta, not to mention what they might have done outside the city. Kyle had mentioned to Stan that he was investigating something - something potentially big. Stan had warned him to be careful, kissed his cheek, and jumped in his car to go to work.

Stan had just landed a job with the company Lush, and while not Stan's usual thing, they were dedicated to animal rights and humane testing, as well as paying livable wages. Stan was the new regional manager, which was one hell of a daunting task, but also a respectable position. And it paid well. That part helped as well.

Kyle could only imagine the stress and terror Stan felt when Kyle never came home from the station.

The driver let him off on the curb outside his apartment complex. They were nice apartments, and the area was safe enough, but Kyle still palmed his handgun as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. The gun was tucked in the side of his jeans, out of sight, but likely still noticeable for anyone who might be watching.

Kyle didn't have his keys, annoyingly enough. His phone had survived with him - not without damaging the screen, but still - but his wallet had been taken from him and his keys had been left in his car, which had also been stolen.

Kyle had been getting into his car when he was kidnapped. They took his keys, his gun, his handcuffs - which then ended up on his wrists - shoved him in the back seat so that one of their guys could drive, and all before Kyle had time to yell for help. He'd been knocked unconscious by one of the two guys who had climbed in the back seat with him.

So he had to knock on his own damn door. What time was it even? Was Stan awake? Kyle checked his phone. Through the cracks, 01:53 glowed too harshly for Kyle's tired eyes. Stan might be asleep by now. Even if worry kept him awake, exhaustion might've pulled him asleep anyway.

Kyle kept knocking for another fifteen minutes before he decided to give up. Sure, he could keep knocking, hoping that Stan would answer, or he could just head down to the station and investigate these guys further. He'd heard what they called themselves. The Enforcers. Kyle needed to research, to find out if that name had ever been mentioned before.

In the back of his mind, Kyle knew he shouldn't. If Eric was here, then maybe the IMF was tangled up in this. Maybe these "Enforcers" were much bigger than one Sergeant should be tackling.

But Kyle called another Uber anyway. He wanted to know who these guys were. And, if he pushed the issue, maybe Kyle would see Eric again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I... I have no idea how police work. Please... never expect that from me.
> 
> Also, this fic is sort of a writing warm-up I do. The continuity is going to be awful and so... I tried a bit harder with this chapter, but I can't promise it's great. I'm working on a separate kyman fic if you want to read something, uh,,, better. Lol. Sorry, this note is getting long.
> 
> I appreciate kudos and comments! I love to hear from people. :D


	4. Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of filler and I apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is practically a songfic, I can't believe it's my more popular kyman story right now

Kyle rubbed the marks on his wrists that his own handcuffs had left, and not even in a kinky way. Kyle never really bothered himself with that sort of thing. Eric had never been one for it - he had too many experiences as a kid. Stan never asked Kyle, and Kyle never asked Stan. They had a simple relationship, a simple and happy relationship going on for nearly three years, now. Kyle rubbed his wrists. With his line of work, with his past, he could never see himself willingly putting on handcuffs. He especially couldn’t see himself tying up a lover. God, just imagine, arresting someone and flashing back to cuffing a partner. Kyle shuddered. The station was always too cold for his taste.

The office area of the station was largely quiet. A newer cop, Reynolds, was all dressed in blues and half asleep with a cup of lukewarm coffee on his small desk, the sound of his tired breathing filling up the space. The air conditioning sounded so much louder when the place wasn’t bustling with every officer in the Southeast and the coffee maker seemed strangely quiet in the empty space. Kyle took a sip of his freshly made black coffee. He had work to do. Come morning, the other officers were going to drill him about where he’d been, what had happened. Kyle would write his report first.

In detail. Everything could be important. 

He wrote.

Reynolds slept.

Kyle finished and started brewing a second pot. Nearly 4 AM. He had time. Others would start rolling in around 7, the earlier ones closer to 6, the later ones closer to 8. Kyle had research to do.

He put his car and license plate through the system, knowing full well it wouldn’t do much good. Canceled his credit and debit cards, put a search for them, a search for his ID, a description of his wallet. Everything could be useful. 

Music. Kyle needed music. And more coffee. He grabbed another cup, nice and piping fucking hot, and put on a solid playlist. “Friction” blared in the quiet of the office. Reynolds startled.

“Imagine Dragons?” he asked.

“Yep.” Kyle’s answer was clipped. He was busy. Reynolds was unimportant, though the cop did seem to help himself to a fresh cup of Kyle’s coffee. So be it. Kyle kept going.

Faces. Kyle knew brief things now. Some of the lower-ranking lackeys had let names slip, had taken off their masks for a few moments because “it’s just too damn hot.” Locations for meetings talked about in poorly constructed code. Kyle excelled at his job. He began to search buildings, parks, street names. There might be a million things named “Peachtree” in Atlanta, but Kyle could cross-reference those with famous buildings and unsafe neighborhoods and sketchy Denny’s parking lots and - 

Kyle took a long swallow from his coffee. It really was a fuck-ton of work. The Enforcers. Kyle would find them. All of them. He wanted his goddamned car back, and hell if these sons of fucks were going to elude him. 

* * *

 

Kenny, that beautiful twat, had let Cartman and Kyle’s names slip. Not in the same conversation. But to the same person. An Enforcer. Fucking Kenny McCormick. 

Likely, Kenny was getting high as balls and rambling about growing up in South Park. 

Wait.

Cartman had to get up. He needed to move. If Kenny was the snitch, then… 

No. Cartman forced himself to take a break. He put the apartment’s kettle under the faucet and watched it fill until the water reached the fill line. He set the kettle on the stove, which was dirty. It had been clean when Cartman arrived two weeks prior, but he hadn’t cleaned, only made messes. His job was about cleaning up messes, but sometimes Cartman felt as though he only made larger messes. Or perhaps they were different messes. He turned on the stove.

He stared at the window. Not so much out the window, just at it. At the glass. He felt hollow. Kenny gave Kyle’s name. Kenny gave his name. Eric. Eric Cartman. They were best friends growing up, but one day, Cartman hung up the phone and was never heard from again. Official sources would have said the Eric Theodore Cartman died in a tragic apartment fire. Nothing left. 

Kenny would have laughed, maybe. Maybe he would have been somber. His best friend for his whole childhood.

Cartman wanted to see Kenny again. Cartman wanted to see Kenny and hang out with Kenny in all of Kenny’s stupid habits and poor decisions and bad sex jokes. Cartman wanted to see Stan again. And Butters. He wanted Kyle again. He wanted their banter and their closeness, Cartman wanted their comfortable movie nights and… God. This was bad for him. Reflecting on South Park and his old relationships. 

The kettle whistled for Cartman’s attention. He turned off the stove and moved the kettle to a different burner. He found a nice mug - a plain, off-white color - and dropped a bag of green tea into the mug. Then he poured the water in, slowly, slowly, watching as the tea bag ballooned with steam. He let it steep for a few minutes, maybe a minute longer than he should have. Then he removed the tea bag. Into the trash. Cartman sat back at the dining area table. 

The Enforcers wouldn’t have had to dig much further from there, would they? No. The IMF erased everything of Eric Theodore Cartman: photos, yearbooks, newspapers. Anything they could. True, some copies of yearbooks and newspapers still survived, but The Enforcers would have to dig around. They might not even know the town to look into yet. Kenny gave two names, and that seemed to be all. Cartman. Kyle Broflovski.


End file.
